


just a lost boy, not ready to be found

by Miah_Kat



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Gen, Gon Freecs needs a hug, Gon is a Mama's Boy and you can't convince me otherwise, Mental Health Issues, Mother-Son Relationship, Survivor Guilt, and even then it ends in a hopeful tone, are y'all ready for PAIN, this is probably the angstiest fic you'll get out of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25529833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Kat/pseuds/Miah_Kat
Summary: He wants to feel Chi’a’ama’s frail, gentle arms around his shoulders as she pulls him tight against her; he’s surely twice as tall as she is now but he knows she’ll make him bend down to compensate the difference. He wants A’ama’s kiss to his hair, for her to hold his face in her callused hands and welcome him back. He wants to hear his name from their mouths, the way his name is meant to be pronounced, because even through all his travels he’d never run into anyone whose accent resembled his family’s—even Ging, a native of Whale Island, the man who’dgivenhim his name, hadn’t gotten it quite right.(He doesn’t deserve any of these things, he knows, but he wants them anyway.)
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Mito Freecs
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	just a lost boy, not ready to be found

**Author's Note:**

> title from "lost boy" by troye sivan
> 
> this stemmed from crying over the CA arc, specifically EP130 when Gon learns about Kite, & i thought, this kid deserves a freakin' hug. my god, someone just hug him!!! so i wrote it.
> 
> i hc Gon as bilingual and i created a language for him in [one of my previous fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207928), so that's why he thinks of Mito & Abe in different terms here. (you might want to go read that one after this to cheer yourself up? lol)
> 
>  **Content Warning:** depression, PTSD/survivors guilt, self-worth insecurity, dissociation, and what could be considered an instance of self-harm.

The sea breeze is soothing against Gon’s face when he leans on his forearms against the ship’s railing, eyes keeping careful watch on the horizon for the first glimpse of his home. He relishes the familiar tickle of ocean spray on his sunburnt cheeks, a refreshing mist each time the waves kiss the hull, his heart momentarily comforted by the call of seagulls as they fly around the sails standing tall against the clear blue sky. It’s a perfect day for sailing; not a cloud to be seen for miles, just the sparkling deep blue of the sea all around.

(He tries not to compare it to the shade of Killua’s eyes—it only makes his chest ache, like someone’s looped a belt around his ribs and pulled as tight as possible. It’s been months since they separated at the World Tree but Gon still finds himself turning to point out interesting sights or ask a question only to find empty air at his side. It hurts, but he understands why Killua left, he _does_. He knows he has to protect Alluka and Nanika, that he can’t afford to keep cleaning up Gon’s messes, especially now that he’d only be a liability without his Nen. He knows he’s second place and he’s okay with that. He is.)

Tearing his gaze away from the shimmering water, he jogs across the deck to find the Captain so he can ask for something to do. He doesn’t like to be idle, never has, but these days it’s better to stay on the move. Keeps his thoughts from wandering too far, keeps his mind from delving into darker corners and going hazy around the edges. He doesn’t like the fog that constantly hovers, threatening to shroud everything in a layer of numbness; it’s gotten harder to battle now without adrenaline to keep his head clear for a fight—for his friends, for justice, for his life. Any time he relaxes it’s there, weighing him down until he’s heavy like soaked wool and the world goes mute around him the way it does when he’s underwater. It’s gotten harder and harder to break the surface again each time—so he keeps moving.

It started with Ging; he’d succeeded in his goal of finding his elusive father and had even spent a few days with the nomadic Hunter, exchanging stories and getting to know the man beyond the frustration-laced tales of his mother and the legendary praises or sneers of fellow Hunters. He understood better by the time he’d said goodbye, how all the stories—good and bad—had come to be. When Ging finally wandered off in search of his next hunt, Gon felt the itch in his feet to move, too. He roamed a while longer before visiting Kite’s group again in NGL where he helped them with their research. But Kite, ever perceptive, noticed his intentions were born as equally of guilt as the desire to help so he sent him away with orders to get some rest.

He hadn’t, of course. He took off towards the city to find Leorio instead and was welcomed readily to share his one-bedroom apartment as long as he was willing to be an occasional guinea pig for Leorio’s studies. It was kind of fun. He learned a little about anatomy and medicine just from exposure and Leorio seemed to enjoy answering his countless questions. He stayed a little over a month, happy to catch up with his friend after so long apart, but despite Leorio’s cheerful demeanor Gon could tell that his reasons for wanting him close by stemmed from his lingering nerves over Gon’s close call. He hovered a lot in the first few weeks as if scared that the moment he turned his back, Gon would disappear. Guilt churned his gut; he’d done that, caused his friend such anxiety, because he’d been reckless and selfish.

(Was it any wonder Killua had left him?)

Suddenly, he’d craved home. He wasn’t entirely sure if that meant just Whale Island, anymore, but he missed it too. So he gave Leorio the biggest, tightest bear hug he could manage—lifted him right off his feet and earned a startled laugh for the effort—and set off for Dolle Harbor to board the next ship departing for his homeland. And now, after nearly two years away, he’s almost there.

There’s a distant sort of eagerness when he thinks of running through the cobbled streets of the port town again. He thinks of greeting the baker who gives him treats and being pat on the head by the blacksmith and having to wash soot from his hair later. He’s even missed being scolded for running between street-carts by the village physician. He wants to see if his hideout in the cliffs made it through another monsoon season, wants to check on Kon and his cubs, wants to swim through the shallows looking for seashells to give to A’ama and Chi’a’ama. There are so many things he’s missed about Whale Island that he wants to experience again.

He wants to feel Chi’a’ama’s frail, gentle arms around his shoulders as she pulls him tight against her; he’s surely twice as tall as she is now but he knows she’ll make him bend down to compensate the difference. He wants A’ama’s kiss to his hair, for her to hold his face in her callused hands and welcome him back. He wants to hear his name from their mouths, the way his name is meant to be pronounced, because even through all his travels he’d never run into anyone whose accent resembled his family’s—even Ging, a native of Whale Island, the man who’d _given_ him his name, hadn’t gotten it quite right.

(He doesn’t deserve any of these things, he knows, but he wants them anyway.)

The sky has grown golden and the sun is starting to disappear beneath the waves when, finally, the familiar silhouette of his home rises from the endless blue. His heart thumps hard behind his ribs at the sight, twin sensations of excitement and anticipation tingling through him to the tips of his fingers. By the time the ship nears close enough to see the dock, he’s practically bouncing in place with impatience; they’ve barely dropped anchor when, with a shout of thanks to the Captain, Gon leaps over the side of the ship and takes off full tilt down the pier towards the village square.

He weaves through the townsfolk with practiced ease, tossing apologies over his shoulder when they yell after him to watch where he’s going before realizing who he is, their irritation ebbing into fond exasperation as they welcome him back in the next breath. He waves in acknowledgement, offers fleeting smiles, but doesn’t stop to talk. He’ll be here a while after all (who knows how long, really) so there’ll be plenty of time later; right now, he just wants to be _home_.

His legs carry him without conscious thought towards the house on the hill, out of town and into the forest, dashing through foliage and hopping over tree roots with such precision it’s as though he hadn’t left at all. He knows this path like he knows his own body; he’s almost certain he could navigate it blind.

The trees grow sparse around him until they open up to a steep hill, a worn footpath leading directly to his weather-worn house at the top—and there, he sees the figure of Mito. She’s at the clothesline hanging the laundry, fading light glinting off her auburn hair in a copper reflection of the sunset. The sight is so ordinary, so achingly _familiar_ , that Gon can’t help but call for her.

She turns immediately, almost before the words have left his mouth, as if on instinct. Even from here he can see the way her eyes widen in surprise before a warm smile breaks over her face the way the sun breaks through the clouds after rain. She drops the shirt she’s holding in favor of gathering her skirts to rush to meet him, his name a cry of joy on her lips.

And it’s that—the sound of his name, _his name_ , in the sweet accent of his mother’s voice, and the sight of her now, how happy she clearly is to see him—that causes the dark, putrid void that he’s been desperately ignoring, shoving _down down down_ , to bubble up like tar between his ribcage. The belt is back, constricting his throat now, choking him as his eyes burn and suddenly the meager distance still between them is too much. Gon tosses his rucksack to the side and _sprints_ as fast as his legs can carry him until he’s crashing into her. Her arms come around him instantly, pulling him tight to her chest as he buries his face there and _sobs_.

“Gon,” she gasps, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head as if she can’t believe he’s there. She leans down to press her lips to his crown, just the way he’d hoped, and he can’t help the gasping cry that escapes him. She pauses at the sound, seems to realize his tears aren’t for the same reason as her own, and then wraps her arms around him tighter, the lilting dialect of their native tongue like a balm to his broken heart as she murmurs, “Oh, my boy. My _li’ili gup_. I’m here.”

The endearment rips another heaving sob from his chest; it’s been _so long_ since he’s heard it, since anyone’s called him anything so precious. As if he’s still just a baby (abandoned by his father), still the boy full of energy and determination (to find that man) to see the world with his own eyes and try to understand just what allure it held (which could tempt a parent away from their child so _easily_ ).

As if he’s not inadequate. Not a failure. To Mito, he’s just her son, her _little guppy_ , no matter how charred or fractured his heart.

“ _A’ama_ ,” he wails, rubbing his tear-stained face against her chest as they flow that much harder. He repeats it helplessly, a mantra only a mother could make sense of in the midst of his turmoil. She squeezes him harder against her, pressing another kiss to his head.

“I’m here,” she assures him softly. “You’re home.”

She holds him quietly to her as he breaks, the force of his weeping enough to bring Chi’a’ama hurrying to the door, but Gon can’t stop now. It’s been so hard, he’s been _so lost_ , he just wants to climb into his A’ama’s lap and stay wrapped in her arms until the pain stops. She seems to sense it because, despite having grown nearly as tall as she is, she lifts him easily into her arms the way she has countless times throughout his fourteen years.

“Come on, guppy.” She pats his shoulder as he sniffles against the crook of her neck, legs wrapped firmly around her waist as his arms encircle her shoulders. “Let’s go inside and Chi’a’ama will make you some chamomile tea, okay?” He nods, hiccups and snot hindering his voice, but she takes them back to the house anyway.

He stays like that, curled up in Mito’s lap as she rocks and soothes him for longer than he deserves. It’s hours, at least, because the moon is high by the time he feels up to lifting his face from her throat, eyes scratchy and the skin of his cheeks tight from all the tears. Chi’a’ama left the lamp on for them before retiring to bed, stroking a comforting hand through his hair as she passed, so he can see the way Mito’s brow is furrowed with worry when he finally gathers the courage to look at her again.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice barely a whisper with how hoarse it is. He scrubs roughly at his face with the back of his hand, frustrated with himself—this should have been a happy reunion and he’d ruined it. _Of course you did_ , something cold whispers from deep inside, _it’s what you’re best at_. He rubs harder, gritting his teeth, until Mito grasps his wrist gently and lowers it to prevent him from hurting himself. (If only she knew just how far he’s already gone to do just that. He’s grateful, suddenly, that Whale Island is secluded enough from the rest of the world that she seems to have been spared that knowledge.) Instead, she sweeps her thumbs under his eyes to wipe away the mess, far more gently than he’s worth.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she assures him with a weak smile. She’s wrong, he thinks sadly, there’s so _much_ to apologize for. To her, to Kite, to _Killua_. He could spend a lifetime groveling and never earn Killua’s forgiveness for what he put him through back in East Gorteau. He can’t undo what happened to Kite despite having tried with everything in him. He can’t erase the worry he put his friends through or the uncertainty he surely caused his mother when his letters no longer came. There’s so many reasons to apologize but no amount of begging can undo his sins.

Mito seems to understand he’s incapable of explaining himself right now so she doesn’t push. She leans forward to get his tea and passes it to him. He takes it in both hands; it feels like it weighs a ton, like back when he’d first tried pushing through the Testing Gates, and it takes more effort than he’d like to admit to raise it to his lips to drink.

They stay like that a while longer, Gon sipping his tea while Mito rubs his back. When he’s finished at least half, Mito pats him gently on the shoulder and says, “I’m going to run you a bath.”

He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to leave the comforting shelter of her arms, but he’s been selfish enough today by keeping her weighed down without even a word of reason. Slowly, he moves off of her lap to sit on the edge of the couch, cradling his tea between both palms. Its warmth has long since leaked out, leaving his hands chilled. Mito stands, cards her fingers through his hair on her way out, and then Gon is alone again.

The silence is oppressive, like a thick smog threatening to suffocate him now that he can’t focus on her steady heartbeat against his ear. There’s a whisper, like something hovering in the shadows of his mind, which insists _you’re being a burden again_. With effort he ignores it, forces himself to focus instead on listening to Mito as she moves around the house and pictures her whereabouts based on her footsteps. He hears a squeak as the faucet turns on, water running, then Mito’s on her way upstairs. She pauses at the top, the creak of a closet door opening, rustling of fabric, then the door closes again as she heads towards his room to likely change the bedsheets. It’s a few minutes before he can hear her clearly again, steps soft on the stairs in an attempt to avoid the creaky one as she makes her way back down to him.

“Bath’s ready,” she announces quietly, taking his cup from him. Nodding, he forces himself to stand and drag his feet until he’s in the bathroom. It’s humid with steam, almost stifling. He vaguely wonders if it seems foggy because of that or because he’s let himself settle for too long. The water is hot enough to turn his skin red when he gets in but somehow he still feels unbearably cold.

When he finally emerges, hair damp and dripping onto his pajama shirt, Mito says nothing as she leads him up to his room where she sits him on his bed and settles behind him to dry his hair. Her normally rough scrubs are mellowed tonight, unbearably tender. It makes him feel fragile.

Maybe he is.

She lets him indulge himself again as he leans against her when she’s done, finger-combing out any tangles she finds, until his chin is dipping towards his chest with exhaustion. Leaning forward to kiss his temple, she murmurs, “Get some rest. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Too worn to argue, Gon tips forward, unconscious before his head even meets the pillow.  
  


xXx  
  


Resuming life on Whale Island again both is, and isn’t, an adjustment. For the most part Gon is able to fall right back into old routines; he helps with the household chores, runs into town for groceries, continues his school lessons with Mito, goes fishing and hunting. He starts new things too, like learning to cook and how to garden and, most frequently, running. He runs around the entire island, explores old hiding spots and discovers new ones, tests his limits in the forest, over the sand, through the marsh—runs, runs, _runs_ as fast and hard as he can but no matter how far he goes _the voice_ follows.

He hates it, hates the way it slides between his thoughts with its biting words and cruel reminders. It’s harsh, and angry, and so similar to _that night_ that he wants to claw at his hair, pry open his skull and yank it out like the parasite it is. But it’s not that easy. He doesn’t know how to fight something that doesn’t exist outside of his own head.

He’s washing the dishes in the kitchen one early afternoon, a few months after returning home, when it gets to be too much. It’s persistent, tireless in its siege against him, hissing things like _you’re worthless, you can’t protect anyone,_ and _you don’t deserve Killua or Leorio or Kurapika, you’ll only use them for your own gain because you’re selfish, selfish, selfish_ —

“ _Shut up!_ ” he screams, flinging down the plate in his hand as if it could physically quiet the intrusive voice. It shatters at his feet instead, dozens of sharp shards scattering across the floor and over his bare feet, leaving scratches in their wake. His chest heaves with anger, breaths coming fast and shallow from his too-tight chest, ears ringing as his vision tunnels so that the only thing he can see is the broken plate.

“Gon!” Mito rushes into the kitchen, stunned by the scene, but he can’t respond to her. His sole focus is the ceramic shards littered around him, glaring white against the linoleum. Because this is what he does, isn’t it? He breaks things. He ruins them, splinters them into pieces that can never be put back together just how they were before. He destroys.

He did it to Killua on Greed Island during the dodgeball game; burned and blistered his hands until they were swollen and so far damaged he couldn’t even feel it. He did it to Kite, left him to the mercy of Pitou’s sick experiments until he was nothing more than a puppet. He even did it to himself, or tried to. Sometimes—sometimes he wishes—

“It should have been me,” he whispers, staring down at his shaking hands. The anger and voice have drained away to leave him hollow and cold. He can’t feel the tip of his fingers. “It doesn’t matter what they say. It should have been me.”

“Gon, what are you saying?” Mito comes closer, stepping gingerly over the plate so she can touch his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“I should have died instead,” he whimpers, squeezing his numb fingers into a fist just to feel the bite of his nails against his palm. “It should have been _me_.”

“What?” She gasps, aghast. Her hands find his face, cupping his cheeks so she can tip his head up to look her in her worried eyes. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Gon’s lip quivers but he bites it, tears springing to the corners of his eyes even as irritation bubbles up again—he doesn’t want to _cry_ , he’s sick of crying—it doesn’t fix anything, it just worries his mom and makes him feel worse. Still, they escape and roll down his face, halted in their tracks by Mito’s hands. He takes a shuddering breath, squeezing his fists tighter as he grits out, “I messed up, A’ama. _I’m_ messed up, the voice won’t stop and I don’t—” A sob clogs his throat. He grits his teeth against it.

“Come here,” she instructs, taking his hand and leading him to their kitchen table to sit. She holds his hand on top of it, a quiet show of support as she says softly, “I think it’s time you tell me what happened.”

He doesn’t want to, _gods_ he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to subject his mother to all the horrible things that have happened but he knows he has to tell her. So he nods, jaw tight as he finally lets the words spill out in fits and starts, until he ends with a tired murmur, “So, you see? It’s my fault. I’m sorry, A’ama.”

There’s a long moment of silence before she exclaims, utterly appalled, “That’s ridiculous!” He lifts his gaze from the tabletop to meet hers, eyes wide. There’s incredulous shock, then frustration that furrows her brow. She grips his hand so tight it’s uncomfortable as she levels him with a stern look to match her tone when she says firmly, “None of that was your fault. Do you understand? _None of it_.” He scrunches his nose in disagreement, mouth opening to refute her because of course it is, hasn’t she been listening? But she cuts him off sharply, ordering, “You listen to me, Gon Freecs. You are here now because there are so many people who love you. You are not to waste the gift you’ve been given.”

He watches in shock as her eyes glisten with tears, her other hand coming up to grasp his in both of hers as she adds shakily, “I’m so glad it wasn’t you, Gon. Thank the stars it wasn’t you.” Her lip trembles and then there are tears flowing down her cheeks as she holds his hand against her forehead, fingers blanched at the tips from how hard she’s holding on to him. She looks fearful, the way Leorio did, as if he might disappear at any moment if she lets him go. Like Killua did when he’d first seen him awake, as though he were a ghost.

Sometimes he feels like he might, like his body is no heavier than vapor and the wind could carry him away with the slightest breeze. But Mito’s hands anchor him now, clutching desperately at his, keeping him grounded the way she always has when he feels like he’s tipping at the edge of a precipice. When she lifts her head again to meet his gaze with wet but stubborn eyes and a determined frown on her lips, a sense of calm washes over him. His shoulders relax as the tight band around his rips loosens.

“You’re going to be okay, Gon.” She says the words with such confidence that he can’t find it in himself to dispute her. The intense look eases into a gentle, reassuring smile as she lowers their hands to the table again and promises, “I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Gon swallows hard at that as he nods. For the first time in a long time, it feels like the truth.

“Okay,” Mito says decisively, squeezing his hand one more time before standing. Gon watches curiously as she leaves the kitchen only to return a moment later with a broom and dustpan. She hands them to Gon without explanation before disappearing into the house again, returning moments later with a large towel, glue, and tweezers which she places on the table. She takes the broom from Gon and sets to sweeping up the remains of the broken plate until all of the pieces are gathered. Then she turns to him with a smile.

“Let’s fix this together.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! xoxo
> 
> please know that the way Gon thinks about himself and his actions in this fic are not a reflection of how I personally view him. Gon went through a lot of shit by the end of the series and would understandably have some rough baggage to sort through by the end of it all and he's only 14 years old _max_. so yeah, i think the kid deserves a hug from his mom at the very least.
> 
> if y'all wanna know what "the voice" he's hearing is like, it's basically from EP130 around 18:00-19:55 when he's going back & forth between denial and anger. he hurts my kokoro.
> 
> feel free to cry with me on Tumbr **@sawamura-daichis-thighs** ❤️


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